


Don't Mind You Under My Skin

by 50artists



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Ancient Rome, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Animal Death, M/M, Middle Ages, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-05-23 18:45:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14939801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50artists/pseuds/50artists
Summary: Five times that Crowley tempted Aziraphale (with mixed success), and one time Aziraphale tempted him.





	1. 1: Wine (approximately 3,400 BC)

“I am sure,” Crowley was beginning to sound rather snappy, “I am  _ absolutely _ , one hundred percent sure.”

“Well, that's what you would say,” sniffed Aziraphale.

The subject of their debate was a single bottle of wine. It sat, rather sadly, on the table between the two of them. It was unopened. Crowley was rather keen on polishing it off, but he hadn't counted on Aziraphale’s complete refusal to touch the stuff. Well, sure, he'd expected some token reluctance. For all his failings, Aziraphale was still an angel, and so in theory he refrained from mortal indulgences - but he'd never kicked up a fuss about the equally indulgent heaps of rich food and strange mortal delicacies that Crowley was able to tempt him with on a semi-regular basis. The brick wall he'd encountered with the wine was just baffling.

“It is literally impossible to Fall based on a beverage choice, angel.”

Aziraphale was beginning to look equally irritated. “I really don't see why you're making such a fuss. If anything, your insistence is starting to make me suspicious.

“Oh, great. Just great.” Now Crowley's voice was starting to hiss. “You’re a real bastard, Aziraphale.”

“Well now, there's no need for that.”

“I'll say it again. You're a bassstard.”

“If memory serves,” Aziraphale said, “you reported these - fermented drink things - as a success for your people.  _ Specifically _ because they made mortals so corruptible.”

“That was hundreds of years ago. Now to be fair, that early barely stuff was a bit rank. But you need to keep up with the times! This is Egypt!” After the expulsion from Eden, alcohol had taken off before even agriculture did. Crowley had no interest (outside of business) in the early stuff, which at best made you slightly dizzy. But wine? He could appreciate wine. “Come on. Modern people drink all the time, and they're no more corrupt than they were a millenia ago. Unfortunately.”

“No thanks to you, I'm sure.”

“So,” Crowley felt maybe his temptation was starting to work, “you'll drink with me, then?”

“No.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Look,” the angel had the nerve to look mildly uncomfortable, “why do you need my company? Don't you normally do this alone?”

“Because it's  _ sad _ alone,” Crowley snapped back, only noticing the pathetic edge to his statement once it was too late. Opening his mouth to add something blasé, Crowley was brought to a halt when he noticed Aziraphale's expression morphing from annoyance to pity.

Crowley did not like vulnerability. But for nefarious purposes, he supposed that he could make an exception. A new tactic had occurred to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Aziraphale, making as much earnest eye contact as possible and seeing the angel visibly soften. “It's just - I always end up maudlin when I drink alone. Don't worry about it, angel. Get back to your,” he struggled for a second to remember what angels actually did, “your, erm, blessings.” Crowley then took a long swig from the bottle and tried to look as pitiful as possible.

Aziraphale was still scowling. But, Crowley noted with carefully contained glee, it was not an annoyed scowl any more. “Well, really,” he muttered at last, “I suppose I should try some, now you've got me here.  _ Know thy enemy _ , and all that.”

Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale took the time to pour out a - rather small - measure of liquid into a very ornate goblet. He drank it as though he was expecting divine retribution to come raining down any second.

“Good?” Asked Crowley.

“It tastes quite a bit like gone-off grapes,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose one might develop a taste for it.”

Finally letting his fiendish grin slip out, Crowley topped Aziraphale's goblet up almost to the brim, and then swallowed an approximately equal volume down his own throat. “Don't worry, angel, we've got all night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just finished reading good omens. i sacrificed revising for my a-level physics exam, but hey, equivalent exchange.  
> my tumblr is xenxat :^)


	2. 2: The Lions (approximately 60 AD)

Crowley was still more snake than he liked to admit.

There was the hissing, of course, and his eyes, and his tongue. If you really inspected the inside of his mouth, you might find his maxillary canines to be slightly longer and more pointed than you expected. Patches of dry skin around his ankles, in certain lighting, appeared to resemble scales. Not that anyone paid enough attention to notice.

Crowley's affection for snakes did not, however, extend to the rest of the animal kingdom.

Normally.

As ever, his vested interest in human suffering had brought him to Rome. You had to respect the Roman empire. They made Crowley's job significantly easier; this Nero fellow was especially helpful, and Crowley hadn't needed to cause any major trouble for at least a decade. The latest spectacle was a rather bloody persecution of the Christians, and Crowley was there for the show. To his surprise, Aziraphale also happened to be in Rome. They hadn't encountered each other for the last century or so, ever since a regrettable incident involving Emperor Wu of Han that ended in a peasant revolution, but Crowley decided to let bygones be bygones and approached the angel with a spring in his step.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale looked less than pleased. In fact, he looked rather pissed off.

“I’m not sure I dig the new body, angel. The old one suited you more.’

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale let Crowley take his arm and start leading him down the street, but his eyes were still slightly venomous. “Unfortunately, I didn't have much of a choice. You see, this Nero fellow has somehow got it into his head that Christians need killing.”

Crowley nodded. “Yes, I did hear.”

“What? No tales of how you turned into a snake and whispered in his ear?”

“Not this time.”

Really, Aziraphale gave him far too much credit.

“I hear they've started feeding worshipers to the lions, too," he continued in the same accusatory tone. "As though beatings and burnings weren't enough.”

“Now, stop. I won't stand for this, Aziraphale. I was _not_ involved with the lions.” Crowley glared at him, trying to get his point across. “It's barbaric. Just barbaric.”

And that was just the problem, wasn't it. Crowley had wanted to enjoy himself in Rome today. Torture, dismemberment, religious persecution - in theory, it was right up his street. He enjoyed the gladiator fights between humans. It was so easy to spark a little extra aggression, and he could make the rowdy crowds break out into full riots. But the lions. Sympathy was not an especially demonic emotion, so Crowley preferred to think of it as self interest. The lions reminded him of himself. They were predators, with sharp teeth and yellow eyes and tightly coiled muscles along their too-skinny bodies. It was only natural that he hated to see their starvation. Their sides were patterned with sores and half-healed lashes. One had missing an eye, another had a noticeable limp.

Something of the truth must have shone through in Crowley’s tone, because Aziraphale deflated. “Oh. I rather thought _this_ ,” he made a vague gesture in the Colosseum's direction, “must have been one of yours.”

“Nah. It's like I always tell you. The humans don't really need us; they're sick even when you leave them alone. Of course,” Crowley was in a hurry to add, “them lot Downstairs think it's my doing. I got a commendation and everything.”

“I don't think Upstairs are overly pleased,” said Aziraphale.

“Really? God’s not thrilled that all his nice little Christians are getting gobbled up?”

“Don't joke about it. They're innocent men.”

Crowley regarded his companion for a long second. He was, as ever, thinking up a scheme. “I suppose you'd be in everyone's good books if something were to _happen_ , and the Christians got free, right?”

Aziraphale gave him a very dubious look. “Is this some kind of trick, Crowley? I'm not daft.”

“No trick,” Crowley said, trying to ignore the fact that he was telling the truth. “You're right. I don't give a fuck about those Christians -”

“Charming.”

“- but the lions, on the other hand. I want one of those lions. They're wasted in those puny little Colosseum cells.”

“What on Earth would you do with a lion?” Aziraphale seemed genuinely shocked. “No, absolutely not. It would be going against all of my orders. I can't have a demon running lose with his own pet _lion_. The line has to be drawn somewhere.”

“Here's the deal,” said Crowley, who was not deterred in the slightest. “No thwarting each other. We free the lions and we free the Christians. I promise not to do anything especially evil with the lions. You promise not to inspire the Christians to become any more holy. There is no net shift in the balance between good and evil. Both of us report the incident as a success.”

“How is that a success for you?”

“Admittedly, it's less of a success for me. I just _really_ want a lion.” Crowley flashed him a toothy smile.

For a while, Aziraphale stayed quiet. Even in his new body, Crowley could recognise the deep crease of concentration forming between his eyebrows, and the slightly agitated tapping of his fingers.

“Well,” he said at last, “I do see the merit of the arrangement.”

Crowley was careful not to let any surprise - or satisfaction - show through. "Of course you do," he said, "it's a win-win scenario. Now. I think we should go and inspect the prisons first..."

*~*~*

The lions - who found themselves suddenly tamed, after being subjected to one of Crowley's most fearsome glares - settled in well. They really gave the place its own character. Occasionally they would chase and scare the locals brave enough to approach Crowley's country house, but much as this amused him, Crowley stuck by the terms of his arrangement and allowed only a very small number of humans to be eaten. Most of them had deserved it, anyway.

Another benefit was how twitchy Aziraphale got with a lion in the room. He pretended not to be scared, but Crowley knew better.

In the end, all the lions found themselves living for two or three times their normal lifespan. When the last one died, Crowley - true to his demonic nature - was not at all upset, but Aziraphale got it into his head that they should have a proper burial. Crowley decided to humour him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote another chapter. this time i'm avoiding revising for my biology exam. who knew - all i needed to motivate me to write were super duper important exams!  
> my tumblr is xenixat


	3. 3: Seduction (100AD)

Britannia was great.

The native population were pale and tribal, with interesting ideas about body modification.They’d only recently faced Roman invasion and tensions still ran high across the island, perfect for manufacturing unrest - Crowley had been focusing his attentions on the Caledonians for that reason.

Aziraphale had taken one look at the bleak northern landscape and scurried off down to Londinium. Bloody typical of him.

Secretly, Crowley thought it was probably best for the two of them to spend time separated. He was getting a bit paranoid, hanging out with an angel so constantly, and hadn't argued too much when Aziraphale said he was leaving. After the Colosseum, a number of other small arrangements with Aziraphale followed, and before Crowley knew it a few decades had passed without even a half-hearted skirmish. In one way, nothing had changed. Loathe as he was to admit it, Crowley had always found the angel rather good company. In fact, he'd spent a good deal more of the last four millenia hanging round Aziraphale than he had spent actually encouraging evil.

But collaborating on work-related matters was new. It put Crowley a little bit on edge. And then, during a particularly complex scheme they’d cooked up together involving Claudius, Agrippina and a vial of poison, Crowley was sure he saw a demonic face spying on them. Probably Hastur, the nosy shit. Aziraphale claimed he was being paranoid, but Crowley knew better, and waited for the call to come.

So he hung out in the northern reaches of an obscure little island, as far from goodness as possible.

They eventually made contact as Crowley took an evening stroll. Crowley caused a little girl to trip over her own feet - a trifling evil, even for him - but rather than bursting into tears, she fixed him with an empty black stare. The management Down Below never could settle for noninvasive methods of communication. If they weren't transferring information directly into his brain, they were possessing the vocal cords of little children to shout at him in deep, foreboding voices. Crowley was considering introducing them to the wonders of parchment and ink.

WE HEAR THAT YOU HAVE BEEN TALKING TO THE ANGEL, CROWLEY, the little girl said.

“Erm,” Crowley stuttered a little bit, “yes, well, actually -”

WE ASSUME THAT YOU ARE TRYING TO CORRUPT HIM.

“Of course,” Crowley agreed.

WE ARE NOT IMPRESSED BY YOUR PROGRESS, CROWLEY. YOU NEED TO GET ON WITH IT.

“Now hang on a sec,” he had to interject at that, and said with a degree of annoyance, “I think it's pretty impressive to even be on speaking terms. I mean, it's not just every day that you -”

GET ON WITH IT.

“Yes, yes, okay.”

They were right, of course. Crowley should definitely be doing more tempting. He actually “tempted” Aziraphale on a fairly regular basis. Food was normally a safe bet. In return, Crowley turned a blind eye whenever Aziraphale encouraged him to be good.

He'd never tried a big temptation, though. Something really nefarious. Something which wasn't, when viewed objectively, very nice.

Crowley made his way down to Londinium a week or two later. He had to admit the place had a weird, newly-built charm. He snaked between the buildings - rectangular and tall, nothing like the tribal roundhouses he'd grown used to - and it wasn’t long before he caught the aura of something much more holy than the average human. Traditionally a demon should find angelic auras painful, but millennia of exposure had left Crowley feeling little more than a tingle. Sure enough, when he followed his nose, Aziraphale's rooms could be found in a quiet corner of town. The door wasn't even locked. Crowley let himself in and slinked down the corridor.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he announced his presence in his most seductive voice. That was his plan. Seduction. It made his body's pulse spike a bit - definitely _not_ with nerves or guilt, not at all - if he thought about it for too long. Crowley tried to offset the effect with a very demonic smile, the kind that showed far too many teeth and a glimpse of a definitely non-human tongue.

If Aziraphale was surprised to see Crowley, it didn't show; he just put his book down and looked up. "Crowley," he said with a much more restrained and human smile, "how have you been, dear chap?"

"Oh, you know." Crowley stalked closer and closer. Alright, this was going okay. He'd seen humans do it plenty of times, after all. It didn't matter if Crowley's personal experience was more limited. He'd only chosen _seduction_ for the selfish motivation of causing the least damage to Aziraphale possible; Crowley wasn't really the seducing type, but it would just be weird to tempt Aziraphale into a proper sin. He couldn't disobey direct orders, but he'd interpreted them rather liberally, and he knew God rarely doled out punishments for less important sins like lust. Besides, he thought as he let his hips sway slightly, he wasn't too bad at this. Maybe Crowley should go into the seduction business more often.

"Do you want a seat?" Aziraphale tapped the space on the bed next to him. "You're walking strangely."

Crowley glared at him and sat down. The bed was purely ornamental. Aziraphale had never slept a day in his life, and seemed to think it was for sitting and reading on (which he did a good deal more of than his actual job).

"So," Aziraphale spoke to him in the gentle voice you might use on an especially irritating child, "what are you doing down here? I thought Londinium was nothing but a load of boring tossers who-"

"Yes, well," Crowley was quick to interrupt, "you've got to scope out the scenery. Erm, you know, your enemies." Shit. The seduction was proving much harder than Crowley had anticipated. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice he was being seduced at all. Meanwhile, Crowley's body was being irritatingly sluggish, and he had to try hard not to stutter as he spoke. Feeling desperate, he shuffled closer along the itchy bed sheets towards Aziraphale. Their thighs brushed slightly and Crowley almost coughed on the air in his own throat. Once again, Aziraphale didn't seem to notice.

If anything, he was starting to give Crowley a very concerned look. "Your enemies?" He asked with a frown. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm," said Crowley, "I'm cold." He then shuffled even closer up against Aziraphale. Shit. That was a move he'd seen used by a teenage girl back in Rome. His master seduction plan was quickly falling apart. Maybe he should have practiced on some humans before jumping straight in the deep end - how was he to know how _difficult_ it was?

Aziraphale pressed his palm against Crowley's forehead. "Are you feeling ill, Crowley?" His palm was surprisingly pleasant, smooth and slightly warm against Crowley's skin.

"No," Crowley bit back. "That's ridiculous. Demons can't be ill. How would you tell by doing that, anyway?"

"I don't know. It's just something I've seen humans do." Aziraphale withdrew his hand reluctantly. "Did you come here for anything in particular, dear?"

In a last ditch effort, Crowley put his hand directly onto Aziraphale's knee. That was definitely something humans did. He then stared at it, hoping that a course of action would soon become obvious. He could feel his body sweating, and it was an unpleasant experience.

"Oh, I say," Aziraphale looked shocked, and for a misguided second, Crowley thought his message may have got through. His hopes were dashed the next moment. "What on Earth have you done to your hand? Is that ink? Beneath your skin?"

Crowley breathed out shakily. "Tattoo," he said, forcing his voice to sound exactly as composed as usual. "It's something those tribes do."

"It looks awful! No wonder you're ill."

"I'm not ill, angel, it's perfectly safe. They just hammer this little thing into your skin -"

"That's absolutely barbaric."

Some of Crowley's strange bubbly feeling was slowly replaced with annoyance. "Really, you've lived through God knows how many wars, and you think a _tattoo_ is barbaric? That's ridiculous, it barely even hurts."

"No, I really can't stand it. Why would you do that to your own body?"

"They all do it. It's symbolic. Of, er," Crowley hadn't really listened to the symbolism, and quickly moved on. "It strikes fear into the hearts of the other tribes. Maybe you should try one, angel."

"Absolutely not. How long does it stay like that?"

To further explain the concept of the tattoo Crowley had to remove his hand. Then they argued for a good deal more of the night - and got quite drunk - and it was only after Crowley set off back to his own northern territory that he remembered his original mission. Clearly, he decided, his body had been malfunctioning. There was no reason for him to be embarrassed. Hell would just have to live with a failed temptation.

Besides, it was probably best that Aziraphale hadn't noticed his efforts. The angel would only be offended.

Crowley spent the next ten years in the remote Scottish highlands avoiding all angelic contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's probably a drop in quality with this chapter because... god it took so long to write!! i don't know why on earth i struggled so much. but it's done now.  
> i have also REALLY realised how little i know about, like, any historical period. sorry i guess. i mean... did they have books in roman Britain? was that kind of thing available to the public? i have no idea!!!!! i did a teensy bit of research on other stuff, at least :^)  
> my tumblr is xenixat


	4. 4: The Arrangement (approximately 1,000 AD)

The Land of the Angles - the biggest chunk of Britannia, now its own Kingdom - was a shit hole.

The Romans had left, but the Christianity had stuck. It was cold and wet. The peasants were no longer tribal and no longer tattooed. Crowley spent a couple of centuries hanging around the various Kings, meddling with their courts and heirs and providing dubious pieces of advice, but eventually tired of their antics. It was dissatisfying to spend all your time tempting people into corruption when they were already corrupt. Even worse, they'd developed their own half-Celtic form of Christianity, complete with  _ monasteries _ .

Crowley had a love-hate relationship with monasteries that stretched back to his time in Europe. On one hand, they were (theoretically) working in direct opposition to him. On the other hand, they interpreted scripture badly and taxed the peasants into poverty. That was all groovy. In terms of the balance between good and evil, monasteries might even lean towards Crowley’s side.

So, although Aziraphale seemed surprised, it was only natural for Crowley to try one out.

“Really, Crowley,” he said with a clipped tone. Aziraphale blended in perfectly with the lifeless interior of the scriptorium. He had a new blond and Germanic body, not as muscular as an angel or soldier, but softer, hanging in an ambiguous area of middle age. Apparently the monks never noticed his unchanging appearance, or maybe they knew better than to speak up. 

Crowley had been noticing Aziraphale’s bodies a lot more, recently. Maybe it was a side-effect from spending so long amongst humans. When they first met, he’d barely thought about the vessel that Aziraphale happened to be inhabiting, and that continued to be the trend for at least the first thousand years. He could remember Noah’s Arc in great detail, but if you asked Crowley the colour of Aziraphale’s skin at the time, or how old he appeared, or what texture his hair held - he would be hard pressed to answer. Back then, the pair of them were less anchored in the physical. Now, they seemed more and more to inhabit their forms.

“Really, angel,” Crowley replied. He realised he had been staring at Aziraphale’s face, and quickly glanced away.

“Don't you think it's a bit crass? A demon in a monastery?”

“You're an _ angel _ in a monastery,” Crowley said with a roll of his eyes, “that's even more tacky.”

Overall, it took very little persuasion for Aziraphale to set Crowley up in the monastery. To be fair, his new life consisted mostly of sleeping in Aziraphale's bed. Rather than using the dormitory, he had his own private cell, and Crowley utilised the privacy to catch up on a good couple of years of sleep. After a while he woke up, claimed responsibility for a famine, and went straight back to sleep. It was a great system.

Occasionally Aziraphale would interrupt. “Just checking you're still alive,” he would say as he shook Crowley's shoulder incessantly.

“Thanksss,” Crowley would hiss back in his half-woken state, “now fuck off.”

Crowley would happily have kept this arrangement going indefinitely. Down Below didn't notice the decline in demonic activity - which Crowley found rather offensive, but never mind - and Aziraphale seemed less and less concerned by his continual slumber.

Still, all good things must come to an end. In Crowley's case this meant Aziraphale shaking his shoulder a good deal more firmly than usual, and hovering over the bed with a stressed expression. No matter what body he inhabited, Aziraphale developed a little frown line between his eyebrows, that deepened whenever heavy thoughts graced his angelic mind. “Crowley,” he said softly, “you need to wake up, it's important.”

“Sssleep -” Crowley cleared his throat. “I mean,  _ sleep _ is important. You better have a bloody good reason for waking me up.”

“A decade is more than enough sleep for anyone,” Aziraphale said. “And besides, I do have a reason.”

“Care to share?”

“I'm leaving the monastery.”

That got Crowley to bolt upright. “What! Why? Angel, do you know how hard it is to find somewhere to sleep uninterrupted, even for a week or two?”

“Really, Crowley, you have slept enough.” Aziraphale sighed. In that instant his body seemed much older, weariness catching along the lines of his face. “If you must know, I've hit quite the conundrum. One of my monks is supposed to receive divine inspiration in a week's time - Upstairs have it all planned out, he's going to become a saint - but I have pressing business in Winchester and I don't think I'll get round to the job. It's all a mess.”

“Winchester?” Crowley wondered what could be more important than direct orders from Above. Unfortunately, he had a suspicion.

“Yes, urgent business in the capital.”

“Manuscripts?” He guessed.

Aziraphale sighed again, and nodded. “First editions. Rumoured to have survived Alexandria.”

“That's stupid, even for you,” Crowley said. “Humans are writing stuff all the time. This place is overrun with them, all writing about this and that, taxes and other such nonsense. Angel, trust me when I say this, it's not worth facing divine wrath over. Why don't you get back to your library job, inspire that nice little monk, and I'll sleep for another decade or two -”

“Clearly you don't understand the importance of these texts,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I do thank you for the concern, dear chap, although I know you're mostly motivated by your own sloth. There's just no way around it. I'm setting off for Winchester in an hour's time; I've left you to sleep for as long as possible.”

Satan’s sake, Aziraphale was such a dick.

For the next few minutes, Crowley watched as Aziraphale fussed with packing. It was mildly amusing to cause a bit of mayhem, vanishing socks and moving all of Aziraphale's small change between hiding places, but a low-level anxiety had now settled into his stomach. He hoped that the monk's divine inspiration was not a big deal. Maybe heaven wouldn't even notice Aziraphale's lapse.

Or maybe they would. Almost three millenia had now passed on Earth, and both Crowley's and Aziraphale's respective bosses rarely took a direct interest in what happened. This monk must be a pretty important guy.

“Just out of interest,” Crowley said, feigning nonchalance, “which monk was it that they wanted to receive the, erm, divine inspiration?”

“Oh, it's Ælfræd.”

Of course, Crowley couldn't do the inspiration himself. Not that Upstairs would notice; Crowley knew for a fact that most of the goodness reported by Aziraphale had no angelic origin (Crowley couldn't judge, as he used the same system in reverse). No, heaven wouldn't notice, but Aziraphale would. And that would lead to a whole lot of conversations Crowley had no interest in, regarding feelings, and maybe being quite fond of his angel (at least enough to not want him replacing), and all sorts of other horribly un-demonic ideas that should never be spoken out loud.

Or maybe, a sly part of Crowley's brain said, maybe he _ could _ help Aziraphale, if he disguised it with selfish motivations.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley interrupted the silence again.

Aziraphale gave him a harried glare. “Really, I do have to leave as soon as possible. And put my socks back, Crowley.”

“You’re going to Winchester, right?” 

“Yes.”

“Well,” Crowley put every ounce of effort into sounding as nonchalant as possible, “in that case, I think I have an idea.”

Aziraphale stopped packing and looked up. For the first time in years - maybe even centuries - something like distrust was sitting in his expression. “An idea?” He asked, eyes slightly narrowed.

“Nothing  _ bad _ , there's no need to give me that look.”

“I'm sorry, but Crowley, you're using your tempting voice. You have a special voice that you always use. Come on, out with it.”

Feeling offended, Crowley resisted the urge to storm out of the room. He took a deep breath and glared at his angel. “First of all,” he said sharply, “I am a master of temptation, and I don't use a specific 'voice’, you rude old git. Second of all, I was going to offer you a trade.”

“A trade of what?” Aziraphale still looked suspicious.

“Skills. Time.” It was a battle, but Crowley managed to produce a winning smile despite his irritation. “It’s nothing more than an extension of our previous arrangements.”

“You've still not told me  _ what _ , Crowley.”

That's because he hadn't figured out all of the details! “I'm going to give that monk his divine inspiration,” he admitted in a rush.

Aziraphale arched one of his blond eyebrows. “Why on Earth would you do such a thing? I refuse to believe it's out if the goodness of your heart - you're a demon. I'm sure the last thing you need is a new saint running around.”

“Well,” Crowley leant a bit closer inwards, and tried desperately not to acknowledge that it  _ was _ from the goodness of his heart, “that's where the trade comes in. I'll do this good deed for you, and probably save you a hearty smiting...”

“And I do something evil for you,” Aziraphale finished with a sigh.

“No different to our previous deals. This is just a more involved. A new Arrangement, if you will,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Preserving the balance of good and evil, and all that.”

“Apart from the little fact that  _ I'll _ be the one doing evil, and you'll be the one doing good.” Aziraphale was still regarding him suspiciously, although there was temptation in his eyes, too. Crowley was sensitive to these things. “Do you think it's even possible, Crowley? What if I fall?”

“Oh, please.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “If you could fall for pretty things like that, you'd be long gone.”

Somewhere outside, the sound of a cart was audible, along with the chattering of a group of monks (they were a gossipy lot). Aziraphale started out of the window, looking pained. “What did you want me to do in Winchester?” He asked Crowley at last. “I won't cause any deaths, that's where I put my foot down.”

“Just a bit of temptation,” he made it up on the spot. “Er, convincing the King to commit adultery.” Hopefully that sounded equal enough to maintain the balance, but petty enough to keep Aziraphale's conscience clear.

Still, as he watched the cart set off - Crowley was disguised as a grass snake, coiled under a little bush at the abbey gates - he felt quite certain that the Arrangement would be broken. Aziraphale just wouldn't be able to tempt the king. He would lose his courage at the last moment, or decide that a promise to a demon held no weight, or use some other excuse. Crowley knew this, and it didn't bother him. All he was concerned with was the mechanics of inspiring the monk.

Divine inspiration could come in many forms. A dream might be easiest; other forms left too much to interpretation. Then again, a dream might be forgotten…

In the end, Crowley settled on a recurring nightmare. He knew from personal experience that they tended to be memorable. And so, once a miserable week of mouse eating and constant cold had passed, Crowley set to work on Ælfræd. The dreams would start the second he closed his eyes, and not cease until he woke up in the morning, and all of them would fill Ælfræd with the almighty fear of the Lord. Crowley observed the lad’s pale face and trembling fingers every morning with satisfaction. Surely heaven would be impressed. Even his fellow monks noted the change in Ælfræd’s mood - and monks were notoriously self-centred. 

Once he finished, Crowley could finally wear his human body again, and decided to set off for the nearest town.

~*~*~

It was a few more years before he met Aziraphale again, and Crowley had almost forgotten the business with the monk. Apparently, Aziraphale had not. When they met by ‘chance’, (when Aziraphale hunted him down), he took no time before immediately seizing the demon by the shoulders and exclaiming, “Crowley!” For a second it even looked as though he might go in for a hug, but at the last moment he hung back (which should have been a relief, Crowley reminded himself sharply).

“Aziraphale?” He said with much less enthusiasm. “Hello? What’s this, have I done something that needs smiting? If this is about Wulfhilda of Barking, I would just like to say that I never even met the woman -”

“I wanted to say thank you,” Aziraphale interrupted him in a rush.

“Oh, right. The monk business?” Hiding his reluctance to move, Crowley extracted himself from the angel’s arms. “You do realise it was just a trade, of course. There’s no need to thank me. I wasn’t doing you a favour. Besides, you never fulfilled your side of the bargain.”

This made Aziraphale look at him strangely, a slow smile breaking out over his features. “I did, actually.”

“You what?”

“I tempted the King,” Aziraphale told him, as though it was no big deal. “That was our Arrangement, after all. You thought I wouldn’t follow your terms?”

“Well.” Crowley coughed. “No. Of course you wouldn’t, you’re an angel.”

“So why did you ask me?”

He knew that he was squirming, but Crowley still tried to look unbothered by the whole conversation. “Oh, you know.” He made a vague hand gesture. “Tempting an angel into sin. It all adds to the demonic agenda.”

“Of course.”

Now Aziraphale was looking at him far too fondly, and they were really stood much too close - much, much too close, because Crowley could see the individual hairs of Aziraphale’s blond eyelashes, and the strains of blue that ran through his irises. And before he knew what was happening, Aziraphale was tilting their heads together just slightly, and there was a soft pressure against his lips, and Crowley drew back with a jolt, alarm coursing through him. “What?” He hissed as the expression on Aziraphale’s face closed off. “Aziraphale?”

“Sorry, dear.” Suddenly Aziraphale was Aziraphale again, and they were stood a respectable distance apart once more. “I suppose I just misread the situation.”

“Right,” Crowley said in a daze.

The angel looked uncomfortable, and backed off farther. “Well. Must dash. I’ve got the Lord’s will to enact, you know. Thanks again for the favour - I _know_ it was a favour, you ridiculous old serpent - and erm, see you around.”

"It was a trade," some sane part of Crowley's brain managed to stammer out as Aziraphale left him gawking. Not quite sure what to do, Crowley pressed his own hand against his lips, which were still tingling slightly although Aziraphale had barely brushed against him. Maybe they'd been damaged by the angelic aura. In fact, in that moment Crowley realised that his whole body was malfunctioning, and he had to sit down. His palms sweated, his heart felt faint. It was an uncomfortable sensation. 

It was for the best that Aziraphale had left, he told himself sternly, and best that they both forgot about this nonsense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i finally finished the chapter! i hope it wasn't too baddd
> 
> i've been up to loads of stuff recently so sorry for the wait... i even visited a friend in london (and saw the ritz! which reminded me of Good Omens because i'm a nerd i guess).  
> anyway i should hopefully be able to update quite soon after this - apart from on thursday i've got my exam results day, yikes!
> 
> my tumblr is xenixat


	5. 5: The Bookshop (1952)

Crowley loved sunglasses.

Of course, there had been various ways to hide himself throughout history. Big hats and headscarves and turbans (depending on era and geographical location, of course, not all at once), as well as good, old-fashioned demonic willpower, could keep humans from noticing anything odd about his eyes. But sunglasses were so easy! All the American celebrities were wearing them. It required absolutely no effort on Crowley's behalf, no constant low-level mind bending to prevent any human glancing in his direction from breaking into fits of terror.

That was his excuse, anyway. Like most things in Crowley's life, his newfound love of sunglasses was influenced more by Aziraphale than he cared to admit.

The first time he wore them, Aziraphale made a massive fuss. “Really, dear, you look ridiculous,” he complained as they walked through the smog-filled warren of London streets (this was back in the ‘20s), reaching out as though to pluck the offending things from Crowley's face. “People are staring! It makes us stand out far more than your usual eyes. Come now, stand still, let me take them off.”

Crowley ducked out of Aziraphale's reach. “No wonder people are staring, stop grabbing at me!”

“But they defeat their own purpose! We're drawing far more attention than usual, Crowley, surely you can tell.”

“They're more likely staring at your coat, angel.”

“What's wrong with my coat?”

That made Crowley want to cry in despair. “Are you aware that Queen Vic died more than thirty years ago?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, yes.”

“Then why do you still dress like a Victorian?”

~*~*~

Over time, Aziraphale got used to the glasses. Crowley would occasionally catch him peering through the lenses, trying to pick out the shape of Crowley's eyes, but even this stopped after a year or two.

In truth, Crowley was hiding. He'd always been expressive. More to the point, he'd always felt that Aziraphale could read him as easily as one of his books.

Maybe that didn't matter for the first two or three thousand years, when Crowley had nothing to hide. He often looked back with a fond nostalgia on those simpler times. Back when his primary concerns were demonic duties, and Aziraphale was more of a friendly acquaintance, someone he'd run into every couple of centuries and enjoy a chat with. Now, everything was different. Crowley had rather a lot that he wanted to hide from Aziraphale. He knew that his gaze lingered too long on the angel. He knew that he was too fond, too glad when they saw each other, too lacking in malice when he teased and too genuine when he wanted his words to sound sarcastic. In short, he embarrassed himself. Aziraphale would have to be blind not to notice it.

So the sunglasses. They were truly a Godsend (or should he say Satan-send? That didn't have the same ring). Crowley could put them on, and feel a tiny bit less exposed, and a bit more like he could breathe.

He knew, at heart, that it was useless to try and hide his feelings from Aziraphale. The thought that his _eyes_ were the only thing betraying him was absurd. What about his smile, still totally visible? Or the way that sometimes, when he wasn't thinking, he would hang onto the angel's hand as if it were a lifeline. Even the things that couldn't be seen condemned him. The way that his too-human heart would settle at the sight of his angel. The way that he still remembered a brief kiss from almost a thousand years ago that Aziraphale had no doubt forgotten, or else regretted too much to mention.

What _really_ gave Crowley away was the bookshop.

It had sat on Aziraphale's street, abandoned and slowly falling apart, for as long as Crowley could remember. Every time he visited, the damned thing caught his eye.

“Did you ever fancy buying that old shop?” Crowley asked as casually as possible one evening, when he'd had a bit more wine than usual.

“Old shop?”

He made a vague gesture out of Aziraphale's window. “Bookshop. You know. Big dusty thing, I bet the door's not been opened in years. Just your kind of thing.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said with a slightly wistful air, “I had noticed it.”

“A-ha! So you like it! I knew you would.” Crowley felt smug. “You should buy it! Do it up. Go on.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I've told you before - I know your temptation voice, and I don't fall for it.”

The assertion that Crowley used a specific 'temptation voice’ was still a sore point between them - mostly because Aziraphale knew it got on Crowley's nerves. Crowley refused to let himself get sidetracked. “Whatever, angel, I'm not even _tempting_ right now." That was a lie, but really, he was tempting for unselfish reasons. "I'm just saying, as an objective bystander, that you should probably buy that horrible stuffy old bookshop, because I know that you want to and it's driving me round the bend.“

“And how do you propose that I magically acquire the sort of funds needed for that?”

“Er,” Crowley rolled his eyes (which of course Aziraphale could not see), “by magic?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He swallowed a long mouthful of wine, and then looked pointedly at Crowley. “Absolutely not. You can't go around paying people in a currency that's bound to dissolve once you stop focusing on it.”

Crowley shrugged. “I agree. It's much easier  to pull a couple of strings in their little brain to make them _think_ they've been paid. Less messy than using fake cash”

“You're intentionally missing my point.”

“Perhaps. What does it matter?”

Aziraphale had an infuriatingly condescending expression on his face as he answered Crowley. “I am an angel,” he said slowly, ignoring Crowley's sigh of irritation, “I am supposed to take the correct moral path in every circumstance. While I know we've both become less… _rigid_ over time, I can't help but feel that property theft is a step too far.”

“You do selfish things all the time!! I bet you use your powers more for wine than for moral issues. In fact, you're still drinking this bottle and it ran out half an hour ago -”

“Really, dear. Letting myself have an extra drink is hardly the same level as stealing a bookshop.”

And that was that. Aziraphale would hear no more on the subject, and Crowley wished that he could put it from his own mind, too. After all, so what? It wasn't Crowley's business. The angel could be as happy or as miserable as he wanted to be.

This was all just an extension of the stupid, un-demonic, and generally embarrassing _fondness_ that Crowley tried to hard to ignore. No demon worth their own weight would consider what he was considering. Every time he saw that infuriating building Crowley wanted nothing more than to buy the damned thing and force it on Aziraphale. Buy it! Like a human! With real, one hundred percent physical money, just to keep Aziraphale happy.

To make himself feel better - worse - whatever, Crowley blocked up a large expanse of London's nice new sewers, causing millions of people a medium-level annoyance for days to come. (He had never liked Bazalgette. It was easier to spread discomfort back when the entire city shared the same river as their cesspool). After that, he amused himself creating gusts of wind to whisk newspapers out from the hands of unsuspecting businessmen.  

Maybe he should just give up. Aziraphale was an angel, after all. He could literally sense love. There was no way he didn't already know how Crowley felt.

~*~*~

They stood together in the doorway. Crowley thought they must have made an odd pair; he'd adapted to the '50s significantly faster than Aziraphale had, and the difference in their suits made them look comically mismatched.

“Now, Crowley, what is it that you wanted to show me?”  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes and gestured to the building in front of them. “This.”

“Yes, the bookshop? Oh,” a note of sadness entered Aziraphale’s voice, “where’s the for sale sign? Someone bought it, I suppose.” He glanced at Crowley with a slight frown, as though he was trying to figure something out. “So you took me here to rub my nose in it?”

“Don’t be stupid, angel,” Crowley felt vaguely insulted by the idea. “I bought it for you.”

“What?” Aziraphale was genuinely shocked. It was a satisfying look. “Why?”

Crowley grimaced. “Because you wanted it, obviously. Because you wanted it to be bought properly, with real money - and seriously, angel, I’ve gone out of my way to get this sorted - I’ve done actual paperwork for you, so you’d better keep the tax records _perfectly_ up to date  -”

He was interrupted by Aziraphale’s rapid approach. For a second he was reminded of a moment (a millennia ago), but that thought was cut off when Aziraphale did nothing more than envelop him in a quick hug, then break away slightly too quickly, grinning, still holding onto Crowley’s arms. “Thank you, Crowley,” he said warmly, “you didn’t have to. But thank you.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” was the quiet reply.

For a long moment, Aziraphale stared into Crowley’s eyes, as though searching for something. In the end he said, “well, aren’t you going to explain how this was all an evil plot? How the shop is going to corrupt me, or lead me down to mortal vices?”

“It wasn’t an evil plot,” Crowley admitted. It took a bit of a toll, yes, but not too much.

“It wasn’t?”

“No.”

They stared at each other for a while. Crowley felt ridiculously grateful for his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s hands were still wrapped around his arms, warm and slightly firm in their grip. In his current body he was a good few inches taller than Crowley, and his eyes were a very fetching dark brown colour that reminded Crowley (just a bit) of when they had first met in Eden - which was such a bizarre and out-of-place memory that it wrenched Crowley out of his memory altogether. How could he remember that sort of detail? Had he really examined Aziraphale’s eyes, all the way back in Eden, when they were barely even bound to their physical forms? He’d been a snake, for God’s sake.

“Aziraphale,” he said slowly, then stopped. He had no idea what he was trying to say. His tongue felt heavy.

Suddenly their surroundings seemed to fade into existence, and Crowley realised that they were both standing at the side of the pavement, hanging onto each other in silence, and neatly stepped backwards. Aziraphale seemed to reach after him for a split second, but then thought better of it.

~*~*~

It wasn’t _embarrassment_ that kept him away. Besides, Crowley was only abroad for a few months. Long gone were the days that he could unthinkingly go a century without encountering Aziraphale; it only took a week or two for him to start feeling lonely, although he stuck it out for a while longer, just out of stubbornness.

When he did return, as usual, Aziraphale scolded him for not keeping in contact, and Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically and secretly felt very happy that his angel had missed him. Aziraphale had moved into the bookshop during his absence, and already had things set up as though he’d been living there for years, not a matter of weeks. He ushered Crowley through into the kitchen and made him sit at an antiquated wooden table while he made them both a pot of tea and asked for news from the continent.

“Well, it’s better than last time,” Crowley said, and since ‘last time’ had been World War One, they both knew how little his words meant. “Oh, and I bought you some wine from Italy. I drank it all, but I thought you’d appreciate the thought.”

“Consider it appreciated.”

Then Aziraphale told him about the things he’d missed in England (there wasn’t much). They moved through into the back room and at some point they started drinking wine, although in a little bit more moderation than usual. Crowley knew that something was on Aziraphale’s mind.

Sure enough, he eventually turned to Crowley and said “Crowley, there’s something I wanted to say.”

Instantly feeling his stomach drop, Crowley nodded. “Yeah, what?”

“Well.” Aziraphale blinked a couple of times. “You know. You and me. Adversaries, and all of that.”

“Adversaries,” Crowley said. “Yes.”

“Well,” Aziraphale repeated. “Well.”

They sat in silence for a few beats. Crowley wished that Aziraphale would stop talking, but on the other hand, he was desperate to hear what he had to say.

In the end, Aziraphale took a deep sip of wine and then set his glass down on the table. “I just feel like I really need to tell you - and I don’t want you to laugh at me - that you mean an awful lot to me.”

They both let this hang in the air for a few seconds. Crowley nodded very slowly, and took another sip of his wine, suddenly feeling desperately that he wished to be drunk. This kind of conversation was all well and good when you were sloshed out of your mind. It meant a lot more when they were sober, and Aziraphale knew it, and Crowley knew it.

He suddenly realised that Aziraphale was waiting for an answer. Every fibre of his being was straining to say something flippant. _Of course you do_ , or maybe, _don’t get too friendly,_ and Aziraphale would probably laugh it off and forgive him. He opened his mouth. He closed it again. Then, almost through grit teeth, Crowley managed to spit out a response:

“Yes. Same.”

Aziraphale stopped short. “What?”

“I said. Me too.” The more that he spoke, the easier that it got. “You mean a lot to me, angel. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You must know it already.”

“I suppose I never thought you’d say it.”

Suddenly, the sunglasses seemed like an annoyance. They were getting in the way. Crowley plucked them off and placed them carefully on the table, relieved to finally look Aziraphale fully in the eye. The world became almost imperceptibly crisper. “I’m saying it.”

For once, Aziraphale was the one struggling to make eye contact. He shuffled almost uncomfortably. “Crowley,” he said. Then he broke off, looking confused.

Crowley had no such problems. It was as though the dam had finally burst. “You’re an asshole, angel, and I really do hate you sometimes, you’re so stuck up and _infuriating_ , it makes me want to tear my hair out. I have no idea what I’d do without you. I have no idea what my life would be without you. I don’t care about heaven, I don’t care about hell. Isn’t that terrifying?”

“I suppose it could be concerning,” Aziraphale agreed. “Being the adversary, and all.”

“I’ve not really thought of you as my enemy for thousands of years.”

That made Aziraphale smile, cautiously. “Neither have I.”

Now they were staring at each other. Both of them were smiling. Crowley felt very bubbly and light, as though he could float off at any second. More than a bit light-headed. “Just out of interest,” he asked lightly, “why did you bring this up now? Why today, angel?”

Aziraphale made a sweeping gesture. “Crowley, you just gave me a bookshop.”

“I’ve been giving you things for centuries,” he said.

This seemed to make Aziraphale pause for thought. “I suppose so,” he said slowly. “Yes, I suppose you have.”

And very suddenly, Crowley felt something well up inside him. He barely had a moment to process things before he was making a strange noise in the back of his throat, and his eyes _stung_ \- he was crying, he realised with a sense of horror. In a flash he was reaching for his glasses again, but it was already too late, Aziraphale had seen him and leant foward in concern. “Crowley? What’s wrong, what are you doing? Are you crying?”

“Obvioussssly I’m crying,” he hissed, “get off me, angel.”

Then, contrary to what he’d just said, he buried his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder and wept.

~*~*~

Eventually, Crowley tired himself out. He was feeling past shame. He was exhausted. At first Aziraphale seemed lost, but eventually he had - very carefully - pulled Crowley into an embrace and sat with him as he choked through his sobs, which took a long time to run out, and then they just sat together. Crowley felt reluctant to move. It was as though he was in an indeterminate time and space, his face in the junction of Aziraphale’s neck. He didn’t want to let go.

“Angel,” he said quietly after what felt like years, “thanksss. Thanks. You can, erm, you can let go now.”

“Can I?” Aziraphale asked. He leant back slightly, enough to look Crowley in his reddened eyes but not enough to disentangle their embrace.

“Do you remember when you kissed me?” Crowley’s mouth seemed to be moving without his consent. But what the hell. He had basically nothing left to lose now, he reasoned.

“Yes. You mean in 1049. Just after the turn of the millennium, when I was working as a monk. Of course I remember. Does it still bother you, after all this time? Crowley, I’m sorry.”

Crowley shrugged in a way that he hoped said, _there’s nothing to apologise for_. “I always wondered why you did that. I guess I’ve been wondering for a thousand years. Well, that - and why you never tried again.”

Aziraphale looked at him, and Crowley knew that his expression was one of hope.

~*~*~

Kissing was a very human sort of thing to do.

A few thousand years ago, Crowley would have found the whole idea preposterous. Right now, he was too focused on the feeling of Aziraphale against him to give a damn.

Angels didn't kiss, and neither did demons (except perhaps in seduction, which was really just going through the motions). A normal pair of celestial or occult beings would have no need to. But Aziraphale and Crowley were barely normal, anchored both into their physical forms and to each other, and Crowley found himself desperately happy as he repeated the slow, pointless act again and again.

"Wow," Crowley said when they paused for breath, "we should've really done this sooner."

"I did," said Aziraphale, because he was an insufferable know-it-all who had to be right about everything.

(Luckily, Crowley had a brand new strategy for shutting him up.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm. it's been.. a while! lots of stuff has happened. i forgot i was even writing this fic. but with the new good omens trailer i was like, oh yeah! that's something i said i'd update, like, months ago!! for anyone who's still hanging around, here's a very belated new chapter! i expect that the last one will come pretty soon since i'm planning on making it more of a epilogue. I hope that this didn't disappoint!
> 
> basically over the course of writing this, i've come to two conclusions: crowley is an idiot and aziraphale is a dickhead. i love them both.
> 
> my tumblr is xenixat


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